


Praise & Blame

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9351836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: “What can everyone do? Praise and blame. This is human virtue, this is human madness.”- Friedrich NietzscheSteffon at court, watching Aerys watching Tywin.Tywin, watching them all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tywinning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tywinning/gifts).



King's Landing rose red and remote above him, and Steffon wondered once more at Aerys' wisdom in appointing him to this position. Was it true, as Cassana feared, that his cousin's mind had snapped? Or was it true, as Steffon sometimes worried in darker moments, that Aerys was at risk of overthrow by their erstwhile playfellow, who saw a worthier king in Aerys' quiet son?

Or some combination of the two - echoes of Tywin's words at Duskendale had haunted the realm these past moons, and Steffon had felt the tolling of them every night when he laid his head to rest. Was Tywin truly so changed that he would see it as a thing of no importance to cast Aerys' life aside simply for politics? For power?

Of course he was not. Tywin had always been capable of absolute ruthlessness in his quest for absolute power. The drowned of Castamere were proof enough of that.

Steffon had never given Tywin reason to doubt his friendship, such as it was between them, and hoped that Aerys had never found reason to doubt his loyalty, even if perhaps there was reason of that.

_ If Aerys suspects me of plotting against him, gods know what he might do. Will House Baratheon suffer House Darklyn’s fate, or is our kinship enough to preserve us? _

He rode through the gates, sick with concern, because - because why in the name of  _ any  _ god would Aerys give Steffon this appointment? Steffon was aware of his own flaws and foibles, and knew that this position would play to every one of them, and not a single one of his strengths. Surely there was some sly viper or shameless lickspittle  who could do a better job of feretting out those who might attempt to act against the King?

Steffon would stand in Aerys’ defence, of course he would, he was kin as well as King, but to find the truth behind rumours of treason, to search out traitors and the disloyal… No. He was too straightforward a man for such a post. He knew himself well enough to admit that he lacked the subtlety necessary for such a thing.

_ Master of whispers.  _ A jape meant to catch him with his breeches down, he was sure, but one he could not refuse. 

 

* * *

“Welcome, cousin,” Rhaella whispered, wrapped all in gauzy scarves and hair-wraps that blurred the brutality scoring her skin, but did not mask it. Steffon had once held Rhaella a little in awe, halfways in boyish love with her, because she had been so lovely, so poised, so gentle. 

She seemed old now, and worn, but still gentle. Her hand shook when she touched it to the inside of Steffon’s elbow, and snapped back before he could even feel it through his doublet.

“You are well, Your Grace?” he asked, low enough to avoid drawing more attention than they already had. He loathed being at court, and understood well why his mother had never wished to visit often - too many greedy eyes, too few trustworthy smiles.

Rhaella’s smile had always been trustworthy. Now it seemed nothing more than fragile.

“As well as can be expected, cousin,” she assured him, pressing those feather-weight fingertips to his inner elbow once more before disappearing, she and her septas a gossamer cloud dissipating into the growing crowds making for the throne room.

The throne itself was as ugly as ever, a towering morass of shadows and shades, festering above the whispering masses in that singular way. 

There, glowing like a sore in the midst of the darkness, was a demon.

There, pale against the blackened steel, too-long hair and too many bandages stark white against grubby robes, was Aerys.

“Cousin!” the King roared. “Come, let me welcome you!”

 

* * *

The King was-

Aerys-

His cousin-

The King was the King.

That could not be changed.

What was within the King’s power, though.

Perhaps  _ that  _ could be changed.

Aerys’ arms were livid with scabs and cuts, some festering for lack of care, others blackened by cauterisation with a clumsy hand. His eyes, always brighter than most men’s, were burning like stars in the shadow of his unkempt fringe, and even his crown, that jewel of which he had always been so vain, was askew on his head and grubby with greasy fingermarks. 

“You are come just in time, cousin,” Aerys said, clambering spider-like down from his perch. “We have much to speak of. You can be trusted?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Steffon said, shocked by the razor-sharp grip Aerys took of his arm, of those too-long nails snagging on the buttons of his doublet. “How may I serve?”

“I can trust only you,” Aerys said. “Only you, and my friends in the pyromancer’s guild. Come. We have much to speak of.”

 

* * *

Steffon had few enough friends - the life of a Lord Paramount, unless you were a man such as his fabled grandfather, was not a life given to friendship. He had had Aerys once, and Tywin, in his way, but none so close since.

He had allies, though. Wolves and falcons and even a shining silver trout.

Did Aerys know?

Did Tywin?

 

* * *

Tywin’s smiles had been sparse, spare things even in their youth, rationed out like fresh water at sea, but there had been a sort of harsh brightness in him then, a light that left everyone else dimmed.

Even that was gone now, Steffon thought. In its place was a sort of cold shine, impenetrable and queasying. No man would dare to look upon the Lord of Casterly Rock too long, save to stare in envy.

He was bald, though. Head shaved and whiskers thick, but bald. Tywin’s hair had been a crown finer than any Aerys had worn as Prince of Dragonstone, but it was gone now, and he seemed a different person for the lack of it, and of Joanna.

“Tywin,” Steffon said, offering a hand - changed he may have been, but they were friends once. Had even that shifted?

“Lord Baratheon,” Tywin said, cool and low, like a tidepool that reveals itself, too late, to be a sinkhole. “Sit. We shall have company soon.”

True enough, others filed in - but Steffon hardly noticed. How could he? Tywin drew them all to spin in his orbit, strength in his every intonation. There was no time to notice anyone else, until Tywin eased a little in his chair, and released them all.

Qarlton Chelsted was sweating in his overly fine doublet, the heavy silver thread about the collar scratching his neck raw below his overlarge ears. Steffon had heard that the man had gold fingers, able to find coin whenever the King asked for it, and wondered how a man of such influence could seem so weak, under Tywin’s cool-eyed stare.

They all seemed weak, under Tywin’s gaze. If such reserved threat frightened them all so terribly, Steffon could not even begin to imagine how scared they must be of Aerys.

Lucerys Velaryon was a young man, nearer to Robert’s age than Steffon’s own, and handsome in the girlish sort of way peculiar to those with strong Valyrian lineage - there was something Essosi in his face, too, which surprised Steffon. For Aerys, there was Valyria, and there was what little of Westeros he liked, and nothing else mattered beyond that. 

Tywin seemed to find the master of ships and his pretty face distasteful, which Steffon found oddly amusing - Tywin had once been overly handsome and exceptionally youthful at this table, what seemed a thousand years ago. 

“His Grace will not be joining us today,” Tywin said, cool enough to pale even Lord Chelsted’s red face. “He is indisposed.”

The relief that drenched the table startled Steffon. Aerys had been… Not himself, but surely it could not be a  _ good  _ thing for the King to take no interest in the running of the realm? He himself kept a close watch on all that occurred in the Stormlands, if only for duty’s sake, if not for interest. Few men  _ enjoyed _ the labour of ruling, and Aerys had never been one of them, but surely he realised that his crown was more than just an ornament?

Tywin sat a little straighter in his beautifully carved, unadorned chair, and seemed replacement enough for the husk Aerys was becoming. Certainly the other counsellors took their lead from him, straightening and setting their papers in order and, in Chelsted’s case, producing a large lace handkerchief to wipe his face.

He wondered how Tywin, enthroned, might compare to Aerys, crowned. The comparison did his cousin no favours - men might walk in fear of Tywin, but it they held him in the highest of esteem. Aerys, meanwhile, they feared for the madness writ large across his scabbed, sliced-open arms.

Steffon looked through the sheaf of papers a royal page - a position neither of Steffon’s sons had ever received, an honour which had been passed to those further from the King than House Baratheon, for whatever reason - had handed him earlier while the Grand Maester simpered in Tywin’s direction, unable to keep himself from frowning as the depth of his cousin’s paranoia became apparent - a spy, to be placed within the Queen’s own household! Worse still, it would not be the first such spy, but only the first of which she was wholly unaware!

Rhaella had never wanted to marry Aerys, had given her whole heart and all her hope of happiness to kind-souled Bonifer Hasty, but she had ever been devoted to duty, eager to prove herself better than the parents who had so disappointed her beloved grandfather -  _ their _ beloved grandfather. Rhaella and Steffon both had always been more beloved of their grandfather than Aerys, and Rhaella had been Shaera’s sole consolation in the wake of the tragedy at Summerhall.

Well, Rhaella and her little prince. How different all their lives might have been, had Aegon the Unlikely been a different man. Steffon had loved him, but he had become strange toward the end, and had given up on many things he held dear - Aerys and Rhaella’s marriage was proof of that. Steffon did not think Betha had ever forgiven her husband for allowing that. 

Rhaegar had been the only balm to their broken hearts in the wake of Summerhall - Jaehaerys had not been the weak king Aerys always remembered him as, and had been a conciliator such as they had not had in decades in the wake of Grandfather’s unorthodox reign. Rhaegar, though, had been a sign that all was not lost, that Summerhall had not signalled the end of House Targaryen. 

He could be a new beginning, if guided with careful hands. It looked to Steffon as though that new beginning ought to come sooner rather than later, for the sake of the realm.

Such a thought was treason.

But was it, really? Steffon had been shocked by the state of Aerys, and surely treason was crime against the realm, not against the King?

Some would say that the King  _ was  _ the realm, but Steffon thought that very short-sighted. Tywin, he thought, would understand - Tywin served the Seven Kingdoms, never Aerys. Tywin had always understood those loftier aspirations of Steffon’s, from his desire to see his lord grandfather’s good name restored to his determination that he, like his royal grandfather, should wed the lady he loved.

Aerys replaced with Rhaegar, and a few good men. Those few men would be carefully chosen, and loyal to the realm above all else. 

Steffon liked Rickard Stark well enough, and Hoster Tully too, and trusted them both to guard this alliance for the sake of their beloved children if for nothing else, but wondered at Jon Arryn’s involvement. The Old Falcon had an heir grown, handsome Elbert, and had made no effort to secure one of the Tully girls for him, much less little Lyanna Stark, who was to be Robert’s bride. It was a strange business all round, but Steffon considered it better to be within the fold than without, just in case of their success. 

Jon Arryn thought it possible. The thought worried Steffon a little, but not enough for him to turn aside the advantage of solid alliances with House Arryn and House Stark - he would need to find a fine wife indeed for poor Stannis, who seemed always to come last behind Robert, and felt it so keenly. 

Such thoughts could not be treason. The good of the realm was never treason. 

 

* * *

Steffon rose with the rest when the meeting concluded, and was drawn to a sudden halt before he could even turn to leave.

Tywin’s grip was steel on his wrist.

“Speak to the boy who will bring your supper, my lord of whispers,” Tywin said, in that depthless voice, that ferocious clasp unmoving from Steffon’s wrist even as Tywin continued tidying his papers, never so much as looking up. He had remained seated, the only one to do so, and had dismissed the others with a careless wave, as though they were nothing to him now that their business was concluded. “Ask him where best to pass an evening in good company.”

 

* * *

A  _ brothel. _

Tywin had never struck Steffon as the kind of man who would frequent a brothel, but Aerys had never seemed a lunatic, before, so Steffon supposed he knew his friends far less than he had previously believed.

Even so - the idea of Tywin stooping so low as to  _ pay _ a woman for the use of her body was preposterous. Oh, if he were to do so, doubtless she would be the most rare and beautiful of women, but Steffon could not imagine Tywin dropping his breeches for even the famous Black Pearl, if she expected payment.

Truthfully, Steffon could not imagine Tywin dropping his breeches for any woman at all, now that Joanna was lost to him. Marriage had left every woman but Joanna without charms for Tywin, and Steffon supposed that the grief of her passing was still too fresh for Tywin to seek such physical comforts.

But a brothel was where the boy had directed him. The order hidden in the suggestion that Steffon ask after amusement had not been lost on him, and so he had come here, dressed in clothes borrowed from one of his guards - no other man of his household was tall enough, or broad enough in the chest to be of use in this regard.

The brothel itself seemed a good establishment, clean and well-lit, and the woman who greeted him at the door was stunningly lovely woman with the darkest skin Steffon had ever seen, and warm, bright eyes.

“You are here for very particular business,” she said. “I am here for particular business also. Come, shy lord - I know what room will best suit your needs.”

Mortified, but unsure of what else to do, Steffon allowed her to lead him through perfumed curtains of gossamer, up delicate staircases, along curving, painted corridors-

And into a high-ceilinged, airy chamber, so high up that it overlooked the whole Street of Silk. Here, sitting at a table of polished wood with a reddish shine, bathed in golden candlelight, was Tywin, dressed not at all discreetly, even wearing the Hand’s pin.

“Lord Baratheon,” he said, a surprising formality until Steffon remembered the whore still standing by the door. “Do sit.”

The woman left, the door clicking behind her, and Tywin held out a cup of wine - spiced and golden, and sweet. Steffon did not like it overmuch, but sipped a little just so as not to insult Tywin’s hospitality.

“An unusual meeting place,” Steffon said, frowning openly because to hide his displeasure would cause Tywin to respect him less. “And an unusual hostess.”

“A whore,” Tywin said, casting her out of mind with the same dismissive wave he had used earlier on the small council. “But a clever one. She will own all this, one day.”

Steffon made no comment, having little knowledge of whores these past twenty years, clever or otherwise, and sipped more of the sweet, spicy wine.

“We did not come here to discuss whores, Tywin,” he said. “Explain to me why you brought me to this place of all places in the city.”

“Privacy,” Tywin said, “There is no one here to carry word of your treason. No one save me.”

Steffon kept his face unaffected only thanks to years of mediating arguments, not least of which between Robert and Stannis. Anything but utter neutrality was seen as favouritism by both sides, which only worsened the inevitable, vicious rows.

“Who has been whispering treason in your ear, old friend?” Steffon asked, and thought that once, Tywin might have smiled at that - might. Now, there was no hope of that. 

“I am no fool, Steffon,” he said, blunt and forthright. “Jon Arryn has come down from his birdcage more often than ever these past few years, and his taking your son and Rickard Stark’s to foster caused more a stir than you three recluses might like. There is a great deal afoot here. I would know what it is.”

Steffon sipped more of the wine, tasting cloves under the sweetness, strong over the other spices, and then sipped some more.

“It is not treason,” he said, “to protect the futures of your children, I should think.”

Tywin’s raised eyebrow spoke volumes, and Steffon was glad for once that Robert was so much a lynchpin of their alliance, so that he could not be excluded at this late stage.

“I have children,” Tywin said, sarcasm hidden under a layer of that cool politesse so particular to him alone, “whose futures I would like to secure. How ought I go about such a thing, since you are so practiced?”

 

* * *

“Tywin would place himself higher than he deserves,” Aerys hissed over dinner later in the week, filthy hair scraped back from his gaunt face. “How dare he! How dare!”

Steffon said nothing. It seemed safer. 

“He would see his silly little daughter made a  _ queen!” _ Aerys snarled, as though this were some terrible revelation. Everyone in the realm knew that Tywin sought a crown for his Cersei, and all who knew her said she was a lovely girl, clever and charming.

Or so Steffon’s newfound sources told him, unasked. They told him so many things, written in neat if inelegant print on scraps of parchment, because scraps of parchment could be burned, whereas a whisper might be overheard.

“It would not be an unwise decision,” Steffon tried, “to tie the wealthiest House in the realm to yourself, Your Grace. To open the coffers of Casterly Rock to the throne-”

“And to place a  _ servant  _ on equal footing with his king!”

Steffon wondered just what Aerys thought of their grandmother, the younger daughter of lord not even paramount, and of all the other Queens who had come from outside of House Targaryen.

Steffon could not deny that he was surprised by the depth of Aerys’ loathing for Tywin’s daughter, and the idea of her as Rhaegar’s wife - was it simply because he, as Prince of Dragonstone, had been denied a Lannister of Casterly Rock for his bride? Could it something so pathetic as that?

He did not say that, of course. Aerys saw treason in every criticism, no matter how slight, and Steffon had Cassana and the boys to consider. He would not risk any harm coming to them just to defend Tywin’s rightly wounded pride.

“I need a  _ worthy  _ wife for my son,” Aerys said, his knife held high so it dripped  onto his lap. “A wife with the blood of Old Valyria in her veins.”

No such wife existed in Westeros, so far as Steffon could remember, and Rhaella would surely not be capable of producing a healthy daughter, not in such a frail, fragile state as she now was. 

He said nothing. If it was weakness, to say nothing, he did not care. Better weak than dead.

“The only worthy women are in the remains of the Freehold,” Aerys said, something zealous and burning in his thin face. “One of them must be found, and brought here.”

 

* * *

It seemed a fit of madness, on Aerys’ part, but it worried Steffon all the same. Who could be sent to the Free Cities to search out a noblewoman of Valyrian extraction? Who could be spared for such a potentially infinite expedition? 

And even if such a woman could be procured, what would she bring to such an exalted marriage aside from a Valyrian bloodline? Surely there  _ were _ women with Valyrian blood in Westeros, Celtigar or Velaryon blood running in Bar Emmon or Connington veins-

Or Targaryen blood, in Martell veins. Would Aerys ruin all their plans and turn to Dorne? Steffon could not see it - Aerys had loathed Loreza Martell simply for being Dornish, never mind for the fierce pride that made her stand against him when they were all young together at court - but it was a danger all the same. Mayhaps a letter to Jon Arryn, when he returned to Storm’s End.

He did not trust any messenger in King’s Landing. Best wait until he was home for such a sensitive missive.

Tywin had made it clear that he wanted to join their little alliance because it gave him the best chance of putting a crown on his daughter’s head, and a grandson on the throne. Steffon could not see Jon Arryn or the others objecting - Stark and Tully seemed wary of the power of the throne even when tempered by their plans, and might wish to keep themselves and their daughters at some degree of removal. Cersei Lannister could be Queen, and then, later, a Baratheon girl with Stark blood could become Queen, and they would all be secure.

Could it be so simple as that? If Jon Arryn’s determination and Tywin’s arrogance could be harnessed to the same wagon, it seemed a certainty. 

How difficult could it be to arrange another private meeting with Tywin? A note slipped among the pages of a report might do it, but ran the risk of falling into the wrong hands. No man of Tywin’s household would be disloyal, but who knew how many little mice crept about the Tower of the Hand without Tywin’s knowledge? Steffon could not risk that.

An open invitation, then, and find a way to arrange a more secure meeting while dining. It would have to do, because Steffon knew no more subtle way of catching Tywin alone.

Subtlety had never been one of his strengths. One more reason to be doubly careful of Aerys.

 

* * *

“The King,” Tywin said, “is mad.”

Few dared say it without any attempt at delicacy, and Steffon was unsurprised that Tywin was among them. It was true, though, Steffon had known it from the moment he entered the throne room. It was still a brave thing to say it aloud.

“And since he is mad,” Tywin said, “it is in the best interests of the realm that we interpret his orders, rather than accept them directly.” 

Steffon waited, unsure just what Tywin meant by that. An order from the King was an order, without room for interpretation, surely?

“I understand that you have been commissioned to seek a suitable bride for Prince Rhaegar.”

Steffon did not question how exactly Tywin knew this, since Aerys had whispered it to him and made it clear that no one else was to know - not even Rhaella.

“It would be in the best interests of the realm that this commission fail,” Tywin said, “because the very last thing we need is foreign influence so soon after the war.”

It was not so soon after the Stepstones that they need isolate themselves from Essos, but Steffon understood Tywin’s cautious phrasing - it seemed impossible that some spy of Aerys’ might have found its way into the Tower of the Hand, certainly no spy of Steffon’s own had had any sliver of luck in that direction, but Tywin was careful in all things. This most important of things was no different, and should not be.

“If the commission were to fail,” Steffon said, “what would the King’s reaction be, do you think?”

Tywin’s smile was as elusive as ever, but the ghost of it haunted the sharp line of his mouth.

“The King will be dealt with,” Tywin said. “And if there is blame, Lord Baratheon, it will fall on my shoulders - it always does, after all.”

Steffon felt ashamed for how often he had left Tywin undefended when others maligned him - ever out of his hearing, of course, for fear of his retribution. Was Tywin not his oldest remaining friend, the man he had admired even as a boy? 

“Tell me then, old friend,” Steffon said, “what am I to do, that I will place you so in my debt that you will bear the King’s displeasure on my behalf?”

The implication of a smile fled, Tywin’s pale eyes turning serious and golden in the flickering candlelight.

“There are many noble Essosi women of Valyrian extraction,” he said. “Find fault in all of them - doubtless they are fools or whores. Most women are.”


End file.
